Honey and Raspberries
by ifithasapulse
Summary: He noted his leather jacket, scarred and old, crumpled beside her purple cashmere sweater dress. Another reminder of how little they belonged together. The morning after, Dean is forced to examine exactly how the cards are stacked against them, and whether his night with Bela had been a mistake or a second chance at saving himself.


Dean let out a groan as he opened his eyes blurrily, his body aching. He rolled over onto his side when he became distinctly aware that he was not in his own bed.

These weren't his sheets.

This wasn't how cheap motels smelled.

And the woman on his left, curled up into the black silk sheets, was definitely not who he woke up to every morning, or rather, whom he _didn't _wake up next to.

Dean wrenched the sheets off him, dashed to her bathroom. On his way, he noted his leather jacket, scarred and old, crumpled beside her purple cashmere sweater dress.

_Another reminder of how little they belonged together._

He clutched the porcelain sink, stared at his expression. Knuckles whitened on the faucets, eyes opened impossibly wider.

Dean Winchester stared at his reflection, nausea bubbling in his gut.

Had he _slept_ with Bela Talbot?

His stomach rolled queasily, and he slammed the faucets open full blast to mask the sound of his groaning as he tried to remember unsuccessfully the night before.

His anxious glance landed on his gun by the sink, perched next to her pearl drop earrings encased in a black velvet case.

_Another reminder of how little they belonged together._

He glanced at the clock in the bedroom, which read half past ten. His gaze dropped lower, and a cold sweat broke out over his skin at the sight of the renowned thief in a rumpled bed, her tawny curls spread out over the satin pillowcase.

Dean was disgusted with himself. For God's sake, he thinks furiously (not without a bit of irony), he was a grown man. He had to take responsibility for his actions.

He closed the door to the bathroom and returned to the sink, where a rush of water poured into the empty sink. Dean sank onto his knees into a graceless heap onto the cold marble floor, his head pounding out Vivaldi's The Four Seasons into the base of his throbbing skull while his hands shake in his lap, his vision blurs until he close his exhausted eyes.

The man he knows himself to be doesn't sleep with cat burglars. The man he knows himself to be doesn't sleep with Bela Talbot.

The man he knows himself to be is no longer here.

With a sinking sensation, Dean buried his face in his trembling hands.

"Dean?"

His head whipped around fast enough to make the colors of the room swim (or that might just be the last traces of his hangover, which is spectacular) and latches onto Bela's bare legs. He jerked his gaze higher and saw Bela, her hair pushed up into a messy bun with a clear elastic, and a lazy grin curling her lips. It turned into a concerned frown when he dropped his gaze and swore into his fist. "What are you doing on the floor?"

With a massive force of will, Dean wrenched himself to his feet, leaning against the counter for support. "Bela," he managed, is breath catching in his throat. He noticed a bruise rising on her collarbone, her swollen lips, and felt a wave of hazy memories crash into him.

-his lips on her neck, nibbling, tasting, exploring-

-her back arching as she screamed his name -

-her scent, _honey and raspberries, always honey and raspberries, _going to his head faster than whiskey -

-diamonds glittering on her ears, her neck, her wrists-

-her dark, smoky laugh as he removed the jewelry with his teeth-

-her hands on his hips, clawing up his back, her hands fisting in her hair-

He heaved a ragged breath as memories assaulted his nervous system, a flush rising up his neck. He tried to avoid looking at her mouth.

The mouth that could raise welts-

_No!_

The worst part was, he didn't know if he wanted to yank on his leather jacket and never look back once he stormed out of the penthouse, or get back into bed and do it all over again.

"This was a mistake," he said hoarsely, not meeting her eyes. "I'm sorry, Bela, I can't-"

He made to lunge out of the bathroom, planning to slam his way out into the hallway (screw his jacket, he could replace it, unlike his sanity) or maybe just crash out of her window if that's what it came to.

Her scent was dazing him, the gleam of her eyes was drugging him, and he didn't know if he wanted it to.

(He was terrified he wanted it to.)

Bela neatly stepped in front of him, placed a hand on his arm, brilliant eyes narrowing dangerously. "Where do you think you're going?"

He was not sure if he was thinking at all.

"I, this, this is a mess, I don't what happened exactly…." He trailed off at the spark of temper in her eyes, then continued, "I just – I don't know – I don't want to complicate this any more than it already is."

Bela laughed, and the sparkle of white teeth reminded him of her teeth scraping along his jaw line. "Darling. Dean. We're both adults here. We both know there are consequences to everything that we do."

Dean's blood ran cold, and perversely his temperature spiked. "Bela-"

She smiled, stepped out of the way for him. Ushering him out, she dropped her hand form his arm. Gestured for him to leave, pointed towards the direction of the door. "Good-bye, Dean. You're welcome to leave. We both know you'll be back soon enough."

His gaze found something behind her, on her nightstand. His cheap old wallet, leaning against her cream silk clutch.

_Another reminder of how little they belonged together._

But Dean was sick of it. He was sick of being reminded of all of the reasons he and Bela couldn't work, he was tired of over thinking every conversation he had with her. He was exhausted of justifying himself _to_ himself, and he was done with following every rule he had laid out for himself.

Her tone taunted him, and he could feel the smirk in her voice. He turned around steadily, the last remains of his earlier nausea melting away.

In two short strides, Dean tugged Bela closer, pressed her against him. Loosened the embellished belt of her cashmere robe, dropped the robe to the floor in a crumpled heap.

"To hell with it," he snarled against her ear, and she rewarded him another dark laugh as he carried her back to bed.

* * *

**A/N: This was an idea that wouldn't leave me alone. This is dedicated to LittleNephilim7, who always supports my work, and especially my Bela/Dean fics. Thank you very much for reading and please leave a review, I love feedback. See you soon!**


End file.
